


Gentle Self-Obliteration

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Top Dean, messiah!Sam, s10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:53:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester tearfully bids and kisses Dean goodbye in the middle of the night, confessing to his brother that he loves him before disappearing. Cas aids Dean in his search and they discover Sam has been catalogued in the Hall of the Gods as a God, his statues are talking, Dean is a sculptor, the horsemen are involved, and somehow, inevitably, the world is coming to an end. Churches for Sam crop up and Dean struggles to find common ground with his brother as they're both invariably in love with each other. A strange twist on the sort of "messiah Sam" trope that I believe exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Self-Obliteration

**Author's Note:**

> Sam makes a reference to him and Dean being Alcyone and Ceyx. In Greek mythology, Alcyone was the daughter of Aeolus, king of the winds. Her marriage to Ceyx was bliss—too happy, in fact. The couple often referred to each other as "Zeus" and "Hera", which naturally infuriated the king and queen of the gods. Whilst at sea, Zeus hurled a thunderbolt at Ceyx's ship, drowning the man. He appeared before his wife as an apparition, telling her of his fate. Distraught, Alcyone threw herself into the sea in order to join him. The gods pitied the woeful couple and transformed them into kingfishers. This may be the origins of "halcyon days", seven days before and after the winter solstice when Aeolus demanded the calm of the seas in honor of the couple.

Dean was used to being woken up by Sam in the odd hours of the night. He was used to letting his little brother weasel his way into his arms, and Dean, half asleep, would wrap him up and murmur something against the crest of his hair before falling back into some vaguely-outlined dream. He was used to Sam’s nightmares becoming a nightly part of their regimen, and his comforting as well.

Of course, his instincts had gone stale, because Dad ordered Sam to stop waking Dean up when Sam was sixteen, and ever since then, it had just been their hands touching between the beds, fingers brushing as Dean stretched one arm and Sam the other, the two of them mutually drifting off again to the light sensation of the other’s skin. Even that came to an end, because of Stanford and a myriad of problems and demons along the way, but the crux of it all was them getting separate rooms in the bunker. Dean didn’t know if Sam still got nightmares, hoped he didn’t and feared he did, but Sam never asked, never came in. And Dean didn’t either.

When Sam’s weight dipped his bed down and Sam croaked his name, Dean’s rusted instincts did nothing and Dean buried his head further into his pillow to block out the intrusion. He was still mostly underwater, in some comforting nonsensical dream, and had no desire to emerge. Sam said his name louder, a hand resting uncertainly on Dean’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. Sam’s voice cracked when he asked Dean to wake up, and the distinct feeling that something was unfixably  _wrong_  shot tendrils into his mind, squeezing it’s way into the cracks of his dreams and sending him into consciousness. Dean blinked up at Sam, one eye still closed against the pillow, and murmured the grunt-equivalent of “you okay?”

Sam smiled down at him, lip wobbling and eyes shining bright and wetly. He was shaking minutely, like there was a miniscule earthquake and he was ground zero. Sam’s smile stayed plastered on his face, maudlin and desperate and three different kinds of tragic and Dean was wide awake, because this was Sam saying goodbye.

Dean’s back cracked as he shoved the sheets down and sat upright next to his brother, looking him over intently before meeting his eyes once again, looking between them as if he could read the truth of the matter right out of them. “Tell me what’s going on,” Dean said gently, but sternly, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he waited for Sam to break and spill words over him.

“Do you trust me,” Sam said instead, his voice wobbling similarly to his body, and he blinked rapidly, batting tears away. It wasn’t phrased like a question, no lilt at the end or tilt of the head, more like a request. Dean’s heart tripped and sped up in his chest.

“Sam, why-”

“Dean, please,” Sam begged, his voice breaking over the syllables. He sounded strained, strung taut, holding back tears with Herculean effort. “Do you trust me?”

Dean blinked once and his mind raced to comprehend what was happening. “Yes,” he said, he felt as if he didn’t have time to lie or answer one question with another to get Sam to tell him what the hell was going on. “You know I do.”

Sam bit his lip and nodded, his brow half-furrowed and his expression stoic. He looked down at the sheets, and at their legs, lightly brushing at the thighs. He slowly brought his gaze back up to Dean’s, who hadn’t blinked in fear that Sam would vanish before him. The old analog clock on his desk ticked incessantly, an annoying reminder, and Dean wished it would stop between two seconds and give them some god damned time.  _Tick. Tick._

“Something really bad is going to happen,” Sam said slowly, “and there’s something I can do to stop it. But I have to do it alone.”

Dean made a noise of disbelief in the back of his throat. He was jumping to terrible conclusions like any older brother would at that statement. “Like hell you do! Just tell me what’s going on, Sammy, so I can help. Please.”

Sam shook his head vehemently, his hair falling in front of his face, and he laughed in desperation. “I can’t,” he said quietly, looking at Dean despairingly. “Please, you have to know I can’t. I would if I could, but you have to trust me. I’m begging you, for the love of god Dean, it’ll all be okay if you just trust me. I have to go away for awhile, but I’ll come back when it’s over.”

Dean shook his head back at Sam, pinned one of his hands to the mattress with his own. Sam looked down at their hands. “Sammy, c’mon,” Dean pleaded, still trying to make eye contact with him. “You gotta know what you’re asking me to do is impossible,”

“No!” Sam’s eyes were filling again, and he sounded like a child. He swallowed again. “Please, Dean— please, just this once, you gotta let it happen.” His voice shook dangerously and he turned his hand over, squeezing Dean’s. Dean squeezed back.

“I don’t even know what you’re asking me to do, kiddo,” Dean told him. “Don’t you see that?”

“Please trust me,” Sam said once more, unblinking. “I don’t know what I’d do if— you know I wouldn’t lie or try to hurt you on purpose. Trust me,”

“I just got you back,” Dean replied selfishly, his own voice shaking.

Sam laughed once. “I know. And this isn’t— just let me, okay? I’m asking you.”

Dean mentally cursed at himself for ignoring the blinking warning lights, the signs reading that a precipice was up ahead and they were heading steadily toward it. “Okay, Sam,” he agreed carefully, watching Sam sag in relief. “Okay.”

“Dean,” Sam said in a hushed tone, like a prayer, and dropped his head. He looked at Dean from under his hair. Light caught against his cheek and Dean realized it was a tear falling. He felt sick. “I’m so sorry about all of this,” Sam murmured. “Dean, god, I’m— I’m so fucking sorry I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. And just know, uh…” Sam cleared his throat and looked away again. When he looked back up, his eyes were different, as if they had more years behind them, more weight. He took his fingers from between Dean’s and cupped Dean’s face. He didn’t move, just kept his hand resting there against Dean’s pulse point, feeling Dean’s heartbeat race. They both knew this was the end of something. Sam was reluctant to let go.

“Just know I love you so fucking much, and I’m really sorry, okay?” Sam whispered, and leaned in. Dean didn’t understand what Sam was doing until he felt his lips on his own, kissing him gently and lightly, closed-mouthed. The hand that wasn’t cupping Dean’s face reached slowly into his pocket, unbeknownst of Dean, and slid an old and heavy ring onto his finger.

Dean’s heart skipped four beats. His eyes fluttered closed on instinct, and Sam pulled away after a short moment.

When Dean opened his eyes, Sam was gone. His heart leapt to his throat. He slid off of the bed and rose unsteadily to his feet, lightheaded and wobbling. He looked around angrily, blinking a few times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. He was alone. Oh god,  _he was alone_. “Sam!” he yelled once, and received no answer. He waited two beats. Sam’s door didn’t creak open and Sam didn’t pad grumpily over and gripe about why the fuck Dean was waking him up. Dean screamed once, something indiscernible, and dragged his hands across his desk in a rage, sending the files and papers and worn photographs gliding across the room and disappearing into the furthest corners.

He was mobile in seconds, going from his bedside to the door and yanking it open. He crossed the hall to Sam’s room and tore it open. If Sam was sleeping in there and Dean had had a strange hallucination, first he’d yell at Sam and shake him and then he’d hug him and cry like a fucking baby.

Sam wasn’t there and Dean’s throat was feeling progressively more restricted.

Standing in the small space between their rooms, both doors open, Dean looked between them and exhaled shakily. He closed his eyes and tilted his head up, chin jutting out. “Cas,” he said lowly, “I’m praying, okay? Get your god damn ass over here. It’s an emergency.”

There was only a wait time of about fifteen terrible seconds before Dean heard the telltale feathery whoosh and spun around. He opened his mouth to cuss the angel out, but Cas wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was looking into Dean’s room, the usual concerned/constipated look plastered across his face. He walked into Dean’s room purposefully, shoes clicking, and stopped in the dead center. He turned to face Dean, who was loitering in the doorway.

“What happened?” Cas demanded of him.

“You tell me,” Dean said weakly, leaning leftward until he was using the doorjamb as a support. “Sam was here and he…. he uh, he told me he loved me. The fact isn’t what’s bothering me, what is is that he said it, Cas. We save that for— hell, we’ve been through hell and high water and we still haven’t said it to each other. So it’s big. And then he was just… gone.”

“All four horsemen have been in this room,” Cas stated.

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. “This is all… I just woke up, this is too much.”

Cas held his hand out in front of himself, twisting it absentmindedly. “You’re right,” he said distantly, “something big is happening. If I know more, I promise you will be the first person I go to.”

Dean scoffed. “That’s fucking great, but if you could find my little brother I’d-”

Cas left him then, too, and Dean plodded over to his bed and sunk down onto it, sitting where Sam had just minutes before, the space still slightly warm, and buried his face in his hands.

He prayed again, but not to anyone in particular. He wasn’t entirely convinced they could help.

He just prayed for Sam.

—-

_THE DAILY ORACLE - 11/03/14_

**_ST. PETER’S CHURCHGOERS IN FLAGSTAFF, AZ WITNESS MIRACLE AS RANDOM TORNADO PASSES THROUGH TOWN LEAVING ONLY CHURCH UNSCATHED AND ONLY 3 INJURED_ **

_FLAGSTAFF, AZ- Today has been a day of firsts for residents in the Central Arizona town. Around three in the afternoon, an abrupt windstorm on a previously serene day quickly turned into a full-scale tornado, ripping through houses and tearing some buildings right off their foundations._

_“It was fine one moment, and a disaster the next,” said bar owner Vic Matheson on the storm. “We got inside just in time— thank the heavens. Otherwise we would’ve been toast.”_

_Miraculously, only three victims have been sent to the hospital for their wounds and our sources report none of them had fatal wounds. The town will need major reconstruction, but luckily no one was hurt._

_Even more interestingly enough, the church was the only building left unharmed. “Not a single shingle is an inch out of place,” reports Father James, a member of St. Peter’s Church. “I was inside and I didn’t even hear the wind blow. I only knew something was off when the car alarms started going off outside.”_

_Other churchgoers confirm said phenomena. Is the safety of this holy building just a fluke, or a fullscale miracle? Our sources will update more as the story unfolds. We’ll keep you updated._

—-

If Dean were here, he’d tell Sam that he was tailspinning, that this was getting too big, that he couldn’t control it. If Dean were here, he’d grab Sam by the wrists and beg him to stop, choke out words he meant but wouldn’t say under any other circumstances. If Dean were here, Sam might not even be able to hear him anyway. He heard the singing instead.

Sam disagreed with Dean. He was light, and detached, yes, but free. Absolute.

Sam Winchester was going to save the world.

—-

Dean had been sitting in the bunker for hours, inert. Moments of panic would spur him to take his phone out, go to Sam’s contact page, and hold his thumb over the ‘call’ button. A second later he would remember Sam’s phone still rested in his room, plugged into the wall and charging. All of Sam’s clothes were in the same places, too, socks still hanging halfassedly on the edge of Sam’s laundry basket. He had taken nothing with him. He had vanished out of thin air with no explanation.

And the fucking four horsemen had been here.

Dean put his elbows on the table and placed his head in his hands. A few books surrounded him in a lopsided semicircle, untouched. He had no place to start, no way to find Sam. The only thing he could do was wait for Cas, who may or may not show up at all. The bunker was still around him, irksomely devoid of life, devoid of little brothers. They had only shared a few words but it seemed monumental to Dean, the end and start of something.

To put it simply, he needed to find Sam and drag him back here. It wasn’t Sam’s responsibility to save the world, and certainly not alone if he was dead set on it. Hell, he’d already saved the world. Multiple times. When Dean got Sam back he would spend all of his time drilling the fact into Sam that he was worth it and had paid his dues. He was forgiven.

Before Dean could properly sink into self-loathing and wonder if it was his fault, Cas was standing across the table from him, staring at him calmly with his hands in his pockets and the collar of his coat askew.

“I have to show you something,” Cas stated, by way of greeting.

Dean stood up, the chair screeching backward. He rolled his shoulders once. “Let’s go.”

Cas cocked his head. “Don’t you want to know what you’re getting into?”

“If it has to do with Sam,” Dean told him as he strode around the table and stood by his side, “then I don’t give a fuck. I said let’s go.”

Cas observed him intently for a small moment before nodding. He put two fingers to Dean’s forehead and the world slid away like a kaleidoscope.

When things shifted back into focus, Dean was standing in a clean and well-lit hall. Along with that, it was fucking huge. The ceiling, high above them, was painted with heavenly depictions of cherubs and seraphims, something Michelangelo might create. The walls were white and bare, save for thin gold frames with words written in Enochian inside their barriers. In front of them were gold pedestals, with marble busts of various people placed on top. The floor was marble as well, and polished enough to see one’s own reflection in. In one word, the place was very heavenly. It was filled with natural light, with no observable source.

It made Dean nauseous.

“Follow me,” Cas said, his voice echoing and carrying fall down the seemingly endless hall. He walked purposefully forward, never looking left or right at the busts.

Dean was too curious. He craned his neck as the walked, analyzing each and every face. Some he recognized, most he didn’t. Gabriel’s vessel. Artemis. Osiris.

They had been walking for five minutes and Dean was about to gripe when Cas stopped and turned around to face Dean. “I want to know what you make of it before I offer my own explanation.”

Dean opened his mouth to fire off a volley of questions before he followed Cas’s gaze and stopped. Cas was looking to the left, an unreadable look across his features.

Next to them stood another marble bust with Enochian behind it. The bust was of Sam, and impeccably well done. It portrayed him serenely, even wise, with the slightest of quirks to his lips as if he knew something no one else did. His hair curled around his ears and shoulders.

Dean swallowed. His mouth was dry. “What do the words behind it say?”

Cas exhaled slowly. “‘ _Our New Savior_ ’,” he quoted.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Cas, what is this place?” he asked, voice small and catching in his throat.

Cas looked around once before answering. “The Hall of the Gods,” he responded, “it’s a physical representation of all omniscient or omnipotent beings on this planet.”

Dean blinked. “And Sam… is one of them?”

“One of us, yes,” Castiel said. “Somehow, inerrantly, your brother has become a god.”

Dean stuck a finger into Cas’s chest and prodded. He looked between Cas’s eyes, his jaw working. “You find him,” he growled, “you sweep this entire goddamned earth and you find him.”

Cas smiled lightly. “I’ll try my best. He’s my friend as well, you know.”

“You don’t need to find me.”

Cas and Dean shared a look before turning quickly to the statue.

“I’m right here.”

Sam’s bust was still without imperfection, and stone-white. His pupilless eyes blinked once and he looked at Cas, then Dean. “I don’t need saving. I’m fine.”

“Says the fuckin’  _god statue!_ ” Dean burst immediately, aghast. He stepped forward. “Sammy, just tell me where you are. Please.”

Sam’s smile spread slowly across his face like whiskey through a throat. Slow burn. His eyes were sad, the rest of his features still and cold. “I’m sorry,” he began, “but I’m keeping you safe. I’m keeping the world safe. It’s my choice.”

Dean shook his head once and then several more times, vehemently. “Sam, I’m gonna say it outright, you’re scaring the shit out of me. Please come home. Back to me.”

Sam’s features were immovable once again, made only of marble and logic. He stared straight ahead emptily.

“Damn it!” Dean swore, scrubbing his hand across his face to clear away the budding tears before Cas could see them. “That stupid kid. He never learns when to stop.”

“That was impossible,” Cas said, his voice a near-whisper, and Dean realized it was the first time he had spoken since Sam had used the statuegram of sorts.

Dean forced himself to slow down, to match Cas’s brainwaves. “What do you mean? The statue thing?”

Cas looked to the floor before finally focusing on Dean. “These statues are monuments only. There were no sigils drawn, no spells cast… The type of power needed to use one as a medium… more than astronomical. The only word I can think to describe it is…”

“…Godlike,” Dean filled in for him, and Cas nodded mutely.

Cas closed his eyes and breathed in, squaring his shoulders and standing taller. “You may not want to hear this, but this may not be a bad thing.”

“Not a bad thing?” Dean repeated dubiously. “How?”

“If Sam thinks the world is hanging by a thread and the horsemen are involved, his new influence could serve to help him right any wrongs.”

“You’re forgetting something,” Dean spat out. “Juice like that doesn’t just come from nowhere. He’s gonna crash and burn, I can feel it. We need to help.”

Cas nodded brusquely. “And we will.”

His arm extended once again and the pads of his fingers found Dean’s forehead, and the hall was gone.

—-

_CNN COLORADO- 11/26/14_

**_MYSTERY MARTYR REPEAT OCCURRENCES- EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT INSIDE_ **

_IOpsEfSave.g^666gsmsd. Us . aLL-_

_Error. This article cannot be found. Please check the url for any errors or search again. We’re sorry for the inconvenience._

_999m4e,s5si0ah._

_—-_

It had been weeks since Sam had left, since Cas had taken Dean to the Hall of the Gods to see his brother. Weeks, and Cas had not shown up again once, not after thirty-thousand fucking prayers and pleas from Dean. Dean was in the dark. Any leads he had apparated within hours.

And he was missing the hell out of his little brother.

Going to Sam’s favorite spot on the Men of Letters’ grounds was like Dean purposefully twisting the knife ever further into his own back, on a course dead-set for his heart. He couldn’t help himself— any reminder of Sam was both a cure and a poison, an illusion of safety but a reminder saying the otherwise.

The lake was serene, with only lazy ripples happening intermittently, spurred on by light, erratic breezes. It was a cold day, but dry and calm, one last pending fall day before the winter truly extends its grasp and freezes the lake, douses the woods with snow. The trees around him were gray, clinging desperately on to the last brown leaves of the season.

Sam would’ve loved it like this.

Dean chided himself for thinking in the past tense and frowned. Sam  _will_  love it like this. He will. He’ll see it like this season after season for years, until Dean has to roll his goddamn wheelchair through the paths to let him see it through failing eyes. Dean wills the promise to be true, vows to see it through. For Sam.

“Fall’s always been my favorite season,” Sam said.

Dean spun around, tripping and sliding on slick leaves stuck to the muddy ground. Sam was sitting cross-legged, leaning back against his favorite massive oak tree, his eyes closed and face tilted upward, toward the sky. He grinned lazily, his hair stirring and ruffling in the wind. A single strand fell out of immaculate place, hanging in front of his eyes. Dean wanted to kneel in front of him and slowly brush it out of the way, but he stayed frozen, a member of the scenery, watching his brother.

“You keep popping up randomly like that and you’ll be an honorary angel,” Dean joked, but the words were lackluster, devoid of energy. Sam opened his eyes and looked up at him, calm save for the furrow of his brow.

“I know you’re concerned,” he said to Dean.

“Understatement.”

“And you have every right to be.”

“Do I need to say it again?”

“Dean,” Sam said, words slightly heated and he sounded fucking normal, he sounded exactly the same after Dean said something that bugged him. He sounded like any goddamn little brother on the planet and like nothing was wrong, nothing had changed.

“Listen up,” Dean growled, his voice shaking precariously, “you can’t just— show up all calm and zen-like and expect us to have a reasonable goddamn conversation, Sammy. You’ve been gone for weeks doing who knows what. Just tell me what’s going on, Sam. Or hell, bring me with you. You probably can just with a snap of your fingers, right? You gotta know this wrong. All wrong. This isn’t how it goes. Look at me.”

Sam’s face twisted into grief, then pity, then regret, his eyes filling and teeth peeking out as he bit his lip. “If you knew,” he said distantly, looking across the lake, “if you fucking knew what was happening. You’d go insane. It’s not real. I can’t— I can’t tell you. And I’m so sorry. I meant everything I said when I left. But I can’t stay, not for long.”

“Woah, woah, hey, kiddo, slow down,” Dean hurried, sitting down next to Sam and abandoning his previous line of interrogation. “The world’s not gonna end in two seconds, huh? Stay for awhile. Please, I-” he cleared his throat. “For me. Sammy, c’mon.”

Sam laughed and his voice sounded wet with tears. He shook his head, his hair falling and shielding his eyes from Dean’s view. “I can’t,” he choked out. “This is all.  _On_  me. Because of me. And I can fix it.”

“Slippery slope,” Dean whispered, and he watched Sam’s face turn and fall.

“It’s not like that,” Sam barked, but he closed his eyes and smoothed his features, killed the anger in his gestures. “Not at all. And I still love you.”

Dean knew Sam would be gone after that sentence and closed his eyes. He pretended his little brother was still with him, still whole.

Still looking out over their lake.

—-

_BBC WORLD NEWS- 12/31/14 - 5AM_

**_FIRST CHURCH OF THE MARTYR’S SHADOW FORMED IN PALO ALTO, USA_ **

_A series of unexplained “miracles” across the Western and Midwestern United States have been the talk of the town for weeks now, reports BBC North America. Starting with a saved church in Arizona and escalating to cured patients in various hospitals, many residents are attributing such events to a singular, new religious figure._

_“He doesn’t have a name yet,” tells California resident Maria Ellsworth. “But we will find out. We’re hopeful he’ll tell us. He’s thin and shadowy with longer hair. Some say he’s the second coming of Christ because of his physical and general similarity, but I think he’s a savior all his own. I’m waiting.”_

_Billboards have purportedly been cropping up nationwide along interstate highways and in overgrown fields. A popular sight reads “LET HIM SAVE YOU AND FIND ABSOLUTION”, a new mysterious billboard along I-95 in Indiana. Thousands have posted pictures to various social media networks with their own speculations._

_Nothing concrete is known about this new pop culture and religious figure, but our sources have an interview with a pastor of the First Church of the Martyr’s Shadow this following week. Stay tuned for more updates._

_—-_

“What’s this?”

Dean started, his hands jerking waywardly, and he almost messed up his weeks worth of work. He spinned, swearing, and wiped his hands on his pants. “Appear in front of my face once or something,” he bickered, nodding at Cas. “How’re things?”

“There is much debate in Heaven on whether we should join with him or not. Some want to rally against him because of his roots as the Lightbringer’s vessel.”

Dean pointed a grime-covered finger at Cas. “Tell those ones they’re idiots.”

Castiel bobbed once in acknowledgement. “I try,” he responded, and looked over Dean’s shoulder to his work. His eyes widened. “It’s  _beautiful,_ ” he commented, carefully stepping around Dean and bending down to inspect it. “I wasn’t aware you had such artistic talent.”

Dean bent his head and fumbled for words, scratching the nape of his neck and smearing clay on the skin there. “I took a class.” He gestured uselessly. “At the local community college.”

Cas squinted. “Talent of this level doesn’t come from a month of community college.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks, Cas. And uh… anything else?”

Cas sighed, and shook his head. “Some say your brother is failing. I’ve seen no evidence of this, but I’ll keep a sharp eye out and protect him at all costs. Or die trying.”

Dean opened his mouth, but Cas had vanished with a soft breeze. He swore once under his breath and turned back to the sculpture. His tongue stuck out between his teeth as he put all his concentration into perfecting the contours and slopes of his project, making it as lifelike and realistic as possible. His face was speckled with clay and the room was fucking freezing to keep it from drying, but he dealt. Intermittently he would stop to rest and spray the clay with water, sitting back and inspecting his work. He nodded to himself. _Adequate._  He could do this.

Within two weeks, he had finished sculpting and baking the piece in the kiln at the local college. He covered it with a white glaze and took every precaution carrying it back home, stuffing the Impala with Sam’s pillows and driving the speed limit. When he returned, he put it on a wagon he’d found in storage and wheeled it out through the woods and to the lake. In front of Sam’s tree he’d placed a marble block, a foot high and wide and polished. A plaque on it read only “ _SAM_ ”, which Dean had found sufficient. He dragged the statue over to its stage and drilled it into place, measuring the bevels to make sure they were in the immaculately correct position. Once down, he stepped back, wiping his brow and admiring the fruit of over a month of his efforts.

His statue smiled up at him and he froze.

“I’d say it’s beautiful but that’d sound a little self centered,” Sam said, his eyes twinkling. He looked out over the lake, grey-black and covered with a sheet of ice. “It’s so pretty out here, thank you.”

“I wasn’t sure if it’d, uh, if it’d work,” Dean admitted. “But even if it didn’t, I sure as hell am keeping the statue.”

Sam turned to him, and his features were soft and affectionate. “The idea was brilliant, and the execution even more so. You should become a sculptor full-time.”

“Naaah,” Dean said, waving him away, but he was blushing. “I’m a big brother full-time, I don’t have time for this crap.”

Sam nodded, still grinning, and seeing right through him. “I do have one question, though.”

Dean internally groaned, the pink plastered to his cheeks. His ears burned, especially in the cold. “And I know what it is, but shoot.”

“Why did you do a full body one? I like the sitting position with my legs out to the side like this, though. It’s more comfortable than being a bodiless bust in a cold heavenly museum.”

Dean waited for the inevitably second part to the question.

“And um,” Sam smiled again. “Why am I naked?”

“You know, I uh.” Dean waved his mittened hands around. “It’s artistic, you know? Nice. Greek, you get it? Like the old famous statues. Venus n’ shit.”

“It’s very romantic. And you got all my proportions right, which most people would find a little weird, but I’m flattered.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m the Alcyone to your Ceyx.”

“I said shut up.”

“I’m complimenting you, jackass!” Sam laughed, and Dean’s heart soared. Sam sounded normal. Sure, he might be naked and made out of glaze and clay and have a religious following, but here he was, sitting with Dean out in the words and trading jokes. His words had lost their more polite choice of diction and tone and fell back into just plain  _Sam_ , and Dean couldn’t be happier.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dean brushed him off. “You and your freaky nerd memory of every Greek wimp ever.”

“You’re the one who modeled me after them, and now you’re saying they’re wimps?”

“Hey, the similarity’s there!” Dean poked. “Wimps United, or whatever.”

Sam cocked his head and pretended to look deep in thought. “Hmm… yep. Your jokes are still terrible.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

Dean suddenly felt a change, not in the wind or the temperature or something physical, but a tiltshift between him and Sam. He felt it as certainly as he was breathing, and the inky dark feeling spread through him like paint in water. He needed to preserve today. He needed to preserve this moment.

More than that, he needed to tell Sam the truth. In his own way.

“Bitch,” he said, because he might not get the chance to say it again.

Sam’s eyes were glistening. The sun was setting, turning him blue in the low light. Blue and cold. “Jerk,” he said back quietly.

Dean laughed gratefully, looking up at the clouds, and when he turned back to his brother, Sam was earthen clay once again, sitting calmly and looking out over the lake, happily and peacefully.

Now, it felt like a lie.

He took five steps through the snow before stalling and slowly turning, retracing his path back to Sam. He bent down and stuck a hand down the collar of his shirt, fumbling for the cord there and tugging it over his head and off. He placed the necklace around Sam’s neck. “Sorry I threw it away,” he muttered, “I went back for it a couple hours later while you were asleep. Anyway, I thought you might want it back. It’s yours now.”

He nodded once, his throat clogged, and started the journey back home.

—-

Dean knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t get himself to wake up.

He didn’t want to.

Sam was in the doorway, just a familiar outline in the darkness of around 4 A.M. He was in just jeans and a t-shirt, but as he approached the bed he stripped those off. He moved the covers away and off of Dean and climbed onto him, their bodies warm, skin-to-skin. The moment felt charged but slow, each second happening purposefully and intuitively. Dean’s thoughts didn’t wander or jumble, he didn’t worry or overthink or even speak. It felt like the final piece of a thirty-two year-old puzzle finally settling into place, the image finally revealed. He was calm and sure. His hands found Sam’s hips in the precise moment Sam began to kiss him.

Dean deepened the kiss, biting and tugging on Sam’s bottom lip. Sam opened his mouth wider for Dean, letting Dean control the kiss, and Dean practically lapped into his mouth, licking and prying Sam’s mouth open wider. They made out like teenagers for awhile, loud and wet and progressively messier, Dean’s dick rubbing between’s Sam’s cheeks and Sam’s dick equally hard against Dean’s chest.

Dean desperately didn’t want it to change, wanted to catalogue every moment and every part of Sam, but the dream moved like dreams do and then he was inside of Sam, and Sam was still on his lap, moving slowly, grinding down onto Dean and kissing and sucking at his neck. It was all in slow motion, and Dean dragged his hands up Sam’s back, feeling the corded muscles under the skin and the bones of his shoulders. Sam’s hands were on his face then, and he kissed Dean again, moving faster, rolling his hips erractically and shifting until the head of Dean’s dick found his prostate. They both hummed into the kiss at the same time, Sam breaking apart and hitting his forehead against Dean’s, their breath mingling. He nuzzled Dean’s cheek with his nose and Dean turned his head so their lips could meet again.

Sam moaned against Dean’s mouth, low and slow and close to the edge. He had found the perfect rhythm, speeding up the pace so Dean hit that sweet spot over and over. Dean felt the familiar warm sensation in his tummy and his hands spread over Sam faster, desperate to memorize the soft, heated feeling of Sam around him and on top him. He heard himself say Sammy’s name once, twice, and Sam said something back, a keening syllable that was probably Dean’s name. Then they were coming, at the same time, just like it should be, Sam jerking and spilling warm come between them, Dean gripping Sam’s ass as his vision whited out and he came inside his brother.

The dream shifted again and Dean was snuggled lower in bed, still naked, Sam facing him with a hand on his arm tracing light patterns and constellations between freckles. They looked at each other and an understanding passed between them. Sam started fading, growing paler as he went, and Dean only noticed his bruises and scars the moment before he was gone.

When Dean woke up he could recall the dream with perfect clarity. A part of him was sure it had been real, that Sam had visited him that night. But not just to make love. To say goodbye, or some other tragically stupid fucking thing that was so like Sam. Dean ran a hand through his hair and touched himself once, not moving his hand, remembering.

He’d go out to visit Sam today and find out the truth.

-

The statue looked gorgeous underneath the warming sun of an impending spring. Sam’s body looked how it had last night. They’d never been together before that- not even then, really- so Dean was proud of his fundamental knowledge of all things Sam that let his hands find the right shape all those months ago when he had been creating his little brother.

One moment, Sam was sitting, staring off over his domain, and the next, he was kneeling, shivering and glaze-colored blood spilling over his lips. His skin was patchy and grey in areas and Dean knew immediately that they were bruises. He felt sickness rising in his throat— he’d never sculpt Sam like this, in pain and beaten down.

He sprinted, closing the distance between them within seconds. He slid to a stop in front of the keening statue and held Sam’s solid face in his hands, making eye contact.

“Sammy? You okay? What’s wrong? C’mon, buddy, tell me. You can come home now, okay? Whatever’s happening, screw it. I don’t even care if the world is actually ending. Just get your ass back here so I can kiss your stupid face. I’ll patch you up, got it? No more statues and churches and lightning strikes at midnight, okay? Sammy?”

Sam sat up with effort, little sobs shaking his body and fracturing Dean’s heart. He looked at Dean once before turning back to the lake. Dean leaned forward to swipe a tear off Sam’s cheek, and found he couldn’t. It was solid, attached to his face as if Dean had put it there.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. Sam hadn’t reverted. He was kneeling, bruised and bloody and fucking crying, his eyes full of pain. But he was clay, the amulet around his neck the only splash of color.

Dean stood back, running both his hands through his hair, over and over again, his heart thumping a crazy beat in his chest. The placard at Sam’s feet said “ _I’M SORRY. -SAMMY._ ”

Dean yelled once at nothing in particular for as long as he could manage before shutting his mouth, his cheeks red and his eyes wild. He ran back home, tripping over ice and mud, and determined to save his little brother.

There were no more articles posted. No more paths or leads or stories. The websites for Sam’s churches held no updates. It was as if the entirety of the human population had decided to silence themselves all at once.

Dean had a terrible feeling about the meaning behind it.

Every day he checked. Every day he prayed for Cas to come, for Sam. Every day he sat by the statue and talked his ass off, telling Sam how he loved him and what things they’d do together. They’d build a little treehouse by the lake and put a bed in it and fuck like rabbits. They’d give each other such long looks in the Impala they’d almost crash the damn thing. Dean would make Sam his favorite meals, would sculpt him a trillion pieces. Sam would sleep in his bed and write him stories and everything would be okay. Dean made promises every day that he knew he’d never get the chance to fulfill.

Three months later and the statue was normal without explanation. Dean didn’t notice at first— he’d already started talking. Then he took in the bent legs and the smooth, bruiseless skin, the smile on Sam that was larger than he remembered making. He stood directly in front of Sam to make it look like Sam was looking at him, not the lake.

“I guess this means you can come back now, huh, little brother?” Dean asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Sam didn’t move.

Dean laughed once. “I mean it,” he said desperately, “Just talk to me. One word. It’s been so long, I miss the hell out of you. You’ve gotta be okay. Cas too. Just fucking come back and don’t be dead or anything, please? Sammy?”

Sam’s smile was frozen to his face. Dean broke, just for a second, picking a stone from the shore and launching it at Sam, and running over, heaving wet sobs as he took in the chip on Sam’s neck, revealing the red clay underneath. He apologized at Sam’s feet, his tears sliding off of Sam’s skin, the statue entirely unaffected.

And that’s all it was. A statue. A work of art Dean had made as a love letter for Sam, chipped and cracking out in the sun. One day it’d be gone. He couldn’t handle this. He couldn’t swallow it, his fucking bitter pill of a life. He went back home and drank himself into oblivion, passing out in Sam’s bed with his nose pressed into his pillow.

Dean came back again when it was warmer and sat next to Sam, spreading out a blanket and chatting earnestly. Every day he brought up a different memory, promised a different thing. Swore up and down he’d take Sam to Disneyland if he’d just come home, he’d even buy the tickets legally. They could enroll at the community college together— Dean doing more sculpting, Sam in some law thing. Dean would do research. They’d settle down and renovate the bunker, put in a home theatre system and watch shitty porn on it.

The world never came to an end and Dean had the solid conviction that a certain Winchester had something to do with that. The answers never came, and Dean’s skin wrinkled and his hair whitened more and more each time he visited the statue, the altar of his love. No one ever answered his prayers. The churches disbanded. The days got longer and shorter and longer still again.

And Dean stood, by the lake, speaking of all the dreamlike, lovestory things he and Sam would never, ever get to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this. I was planning on making a sequel telling the truth of Sam's perspective and completing all sides of the story, possibly including some Cas chapters as more. If you guys want it to be longer and more fleshed out (with maybe more sex and a happier ending and bigbang-sized!), then please leave a comment! If I see that there's interest in anything about this at all, I might continue it. Thank you :)


End file.
